


Off the Tapes

by My_Own_Infinity



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: DO NOT OPEN, Elias/Peter mention, Gen, Lukas family dynamics, Moorland House, More additional tags to be added, Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), jon getting his position, jon is mean to martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23584747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Own_Infinity/pseuds/My_Own_Infinity
Summary: While the Ceaseless Watcher records most of Jon's actions, there are often things related to the files that slip beneath its notice. The Eye may not need to know every story that goes into the making of a file (and an Archivist), but some stories are just too good not to tell.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	1. Little Child

**Author's Note:**

> "My name is Jonathan Sims. I work for the Magnus Institute, London, an organisation dedicated to academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal. The head of the Institute, Mr. Elias Bouchard, has employed me to replace the previous Head Archivist, one Gertrude Robinson, who has recently passed away." [Jonathan Sims, Episode 1- Anglerfish]

The time on Jon’s phone changes from 2:49 to 2:50. That’s good enough, isn’t it? It’s always better to be early to appointments, especially with your boss. Still, Jon hesitates. Is ten minutes  _ too  _ early? Is it presumptuous of him to knock on Elias’ door now, as though the head of the Magnus Institute has nothing better to do with these ten minutes than humor Jon’s potentially outdated notions of timeliness? What if he’s interrupting something? Or worse, what if Elias feels that his being early means that Jon isn’t making productive use of his time at work? Jon thinks he’s been doing the best he can, but that doesn’t automatically make his work  _ good enough,  _ and- 

The door opens. 

“Ah,  _ Jon. _ Good. I was worried you’d forgotten our appointment.” Elias stands on the other side of the doorway, his head tilted just slightly to the side and his lips curved up in the smallest of smiles, like he’s laughing at some private joke. “You look nervous. Come in.” 

Jon steps through the threshold and follows Elias to the grand oak desk at the other end of the room. The desk, much like the Institute, is two hundred years old (as Elias proudly informed him during his initial interview), but the various heads of the Institute have kept it in good enough shape that it remains an elegant and imposing piece of furniture. Behind the desk are three floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling shops of King’s Road, rooftops and rooftop gardens stretching off into the distance. 

Elias takes his seat behind the desk and motions for Jon to take the overly large chair in front of it, folding his hands elegantly and placing them on his lap. Jon hesitates before sitting. Aside from being preposterously large for a guest chair, its position - a little further away from the desk than is typical, putting it near the center of the room - puts Jon ill at ease. As he tries - and fails - to get comfortable, and as Elias watches him, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being  _ judged  _ for something. 

On the other side of the desk, Elias smiles wider. “So. Jon.  _ How  _ have you been? Has the research department been treating you well? Everything you’d hoped?” 

“I, er…” Jon blinks at him, a bit taken aback by the question. He’s been working in research for the last four years, so he’s not sure what “hopes” Elias could be referring to, aside from a stable income and something productive to do with his time. Is he being reprimanded for something? He must be - his yearly review isn’t supposed to be until August. Is it August? When was the last time he looked at his calendar? “I think so, yes. I mean, I… I’ve not  _ done _ anything, have I?”

“No, no.” Elias is quick to reassure him. “You’ve done nothing. Well, I suppose that’s not  _ exactly _ true - you’ve done quite a lot, haven’t you?”

Has he? He doesn’t think he has. Not anything noteworthy, at any rate. Jon catches himself starting to tug at the sleeves of his sweater - a nervous habit he’d developed as a child that he’s never managed to shake. 

“Thank you,” he says, unsure if Elias is trying to compliment him. 

Elias waves a hand. “Give yourself more credit, Jon. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the extra time you put into each assignment; the  _ precision _ and  _ dedication _ you show in your ceaseless search for the truth.” Elias’ eyes are wide now, their icy blue gaze boring into Jon. “Put simply: You, Jon, are an exemplary employee.”

“I am? I mean- Yes. Thank you. Again.” Jon shakes his head to clear it, still reeling from the shock of actually being  _ complimented  _ for the qualities that have made him the subject of (only occasionally good-natured) ridicule all his life. “That… means a lot. Sorry, is there something specific that sparked this?”

There’s a subtle shift in Elias’ mannerisms - his lips press tightly together, and his signature half smile disappears behind a cloud. The hungry look in his eyes, however, doesn’t change. “Unfortunately, yes. As you may have heard, our head archivist, Gertrude Robinson, has… well. Let’s say she has died  _ in the line of duty _ , and I am in immediate need of someone to take her place.” He shifts his weight forward, placing his clasped hands on the desk. “Someone competent. Someone dedicated.”

“Someone like me,” Jon finishes, not entirely believing what he’s hearing.

Elias smiles. “Exactly like you, Jon. I would like to offer you her former position as head archivist.”

Jon gapes at him.  _ Head Archivist.  _ He’s heard about the archives, of course. An organizational nightmare of half-finished transcript and unreliable reports, managed by the famously reticent Ms. Robinson and a few young, doe-eyes assistants. The archives, along with artifact storage, are the dirty little secret of the Institute: something barely acknowledged by Jon’s colleagues despite the fact that they all work in the same building.

“But… why  _ me?” _ Jon asks, uncomfortably aware how childish the question sounds. “Not that I’m not flattered - really, I am, but surely there are other people better suited to the position. I mean, Sasha is-”

“...Very good at what she does, I agree,” Elias finishes with a nod. “ _ But _ I feel her skills are best suited elsewhere.” He looks Jon over, and again Jon gets the unshakable feeling that his entire self is being put on a slab and dissected. “Don’t be so modest. I’ve had my eye on you for awhile, Jon. I  _ truly _ think you would be best for the role. You can, of course, decline the offer, but I must admit I would be very disappointed.” He drags out the last word, punctuating it with a mournful sigh as though a refusal would break his heart. “The position comes with a significant pay raise, if that sweetens the pot for you.”

Jon’s head and heart are both racing as he weighs his options. On one hand, accepting the position would potentially alienate him from the few coworkers he actually enjoys talking to. Being the head archivist would require him to sift through mountains of testimonials, most of which are complete nonsense, in a windowless room for upwards of forty hours a week (plus overtime, which with Jon is always a given). On the other hand…

The isolated nature of the position would allow Jon to work in peace and quiet for a majority of the time, which for Jon is more valuable than any raise Elias could offer. (Though he can’t pretend he hasn’t been considering moving to a better flat.) And who does he  _ really _ talk to in his current position? Tim, maybe, but Tim talks to everyone. He’d hardly consider them friends, even if they are relatively friendly. It would be silly for Jon to turn down a position because he’s worried about what a few of his barely-acquaintances will think.

“Alright,” he says to Elias, who is already smiling. “I accept, I mean. Thank you.”

_ “Wonderful.” _ Elias looks immensely pleased with his answer - Gertrude’s death must have been more disruptive to the Institute than Jon had thought. “I’ll have the paperwork ready for you by the end of the day.” Elias turns to his computer, which Jon takes as his cue to leave. 

Jon stands - instantly feeling a hundred times better as the  _ watched _ feeling vanishes - and turns towards the door, already sifting through plans to reorganize the archives. He’ll sort them by date, he decides, and then alphabetically. Or maybe alphabetically and then by date? How many statements  _ are _ there, anyway? He’ll sneak a glance tonight, once everyone else leaves. He’s already going to be staying late to finish up his current projects, so a few extra minutes couldn’t hurt…

“Oh, and Jon?” Elias calls out from behind him.

Jon turns around, one hand on the door frame. “Yes?”

Elias is watching Jon, his gaze searching, piercing. When the new head archivist visibly shudders, Elias’ eyes crinkle.

“Congratulations, archivist,” he says as Jon stumbles backwards out the door. “I get the feeling you will be  _ exactly _ what I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you like what you read, please comment/subscribe for more! You can also visit me at my blog [here!](https://themoreyoustrex.tumblr.com/)


	2. What You're Doing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Martin? Martin, is that you? ...I swear, if he’s brought another dog in here, I’m going to peel him." [Jonathan Sims, Launch Trailer]

There is a dog in the archives.

Jon had been in the middle of a statement - something about a terrible beast that was  _ allegedly _ burrowing its way through Battersea Park - when he realized that the detailed, almost visceral descriptions of its scraping claws and snuffling snout felt a little  _ too  _ real. In fact, it wasn’t  _ like _ he could hear them - he  _ could _ hear them. Upon investigation of the hallway, he found what appeared to be a St. Bernard  _ slobbering _ all over his archive floor. Now, Jon - who has never been a fan of dogs - is trying his hardest to wrangle this mangy beast into the staff bathroom without getting drool on his shirt. (Work “officially” starts in an hour, and he does  _ not  _ have time to go home and change his shirt.) 

He quickly learns that the “nudge with the side of his foot” approach does not work nearly as well with dogs as it does with cats, especially when the dog in question is roughly eighty kilos. Thus, he is in the middle of trying a combination of pushing, pulling, and swearing at the dog when the bathroom door opens and Martin steps into the hallway. 

“Oh! Good morning, Jon, I didn’t- Whoa, down, girl!” Immediately, the gigantic dog shakes Jon off and bounds over to the equally oversized man, wagging its tail and just about tackling him to the ground. “Yeah, okay, there’s a good girl. Sit. No? Okay, just… hang on one minute.” Martin shoots Jon an apologetic look and crouches down, scratching behind the dog’s ear with one hand and rubbing his neck with the other.

“Martin,” Jon says, the word laced with accusation.

Martin looks up at Jon with brown eyes as wide and pathetic as the dog’s. It’s an imploring look, one that is usually accompanied by an apology, an explanation, and a request for  _ just a small favor. _ Jon despises that look.

“So,” Martin starts after a deep breath, and Jon has to swallow a groan because this already sounds rehearsed, “I was walking to work - I know it’s far, but I wake up early and sometimes I just like to take some time to enjoy the city before the day  _ really _ starts, you know? And before you say anything, I  _ know  _ pets aren’t allowed in the Institute, but she’s not  _ technically _ my dog. I found him in the little alleyway by the ice cream shop by Markham Square - do you know the place? It’s  _ really  _ good, they have-”

_ “Martin.”  _

“Right! Right. So, I was walking to work and I found him digging through the trash, and I thought, ‘Huh, that’s odd,’ ‘cause you don’t often see dogs like this one as strays, and she had a collar, so I-”

“...Just brought it to the archives?” Jon finishes through gritted teeth. 

Martin looks offended. “No! I  _ obviously _ checked to see if she had any identifying tags - an address, a phone number, you know. And she did! But the address is all the way in  _ Greenwich _ , can you believe that? How did she get over here? But I called the number on the tag, and a woman answered. She was  _ so happy _ to hear that I’d found Bessie - that’s the dog - and she’s coming over here right now to get her. I mean, I guess I could have waited where I was, but I was worried I’d be late to work, and I  _ know  _ how much you hate that-”

“Stop,” Jon says to cut off the babbling. He cannot believe this. The work day hasn’t even started yet, and Martin’s already given him a headache. He glares at Martin, who shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably as the dog -  _ Bessie _ , apparently - sweeps the floor with her tail, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. As he watches, a line of drool drips onto the hallway floor. He sighs. “Martin, I really  _ don’t care _ why you brought a dog into my archives. It’s-” he checks his watch, “eight-thirty, so you have thirty minutes before you officially become my problem. Just get the dog out of the building. Wait for the owner outside if you have to.”

Martin’s head nods like it’s attached to his body by a spring, and he grabs the dog’s collar and stands up. 

“But what if I’m-”

Jon waves a hand. “If you’re late, then at least the rest of us will have a few extra minutes of peace.”

Jon storms past Martin - from the look on his face, Jon may as well have  _ kicked _ the damn dog - and into the bathroom. He hadn’t gone home the night before, so he should at least splash some water on his face and fix his hair before Sasha or (god forbid) Tim sees his bedhead. Or deskhead, as it were, since he hadn’t felt it necessary to make the trek home last night just to get four hours of sleep. 

The running sink water drowns out the sound of man and dog trotting back down the hallway, and Jon stubbornly buries any lingering guilt from snapping at Martin. It isn’t his fault the oaf can’t abide by the rules of the archive. He washes his face with hand soap and dries it with a paper towel, then digs around under the sink until he finds the spare clothes he has stashed here for emergencies. A  _ St. Bernard? _ Really? What was Martin  _ thinking? _ Not much of anything, Jon supposes as he pulls on the flannel button-down, same as usual. 

All dressed and as ready to start the day as he ever is, Jon heads back to his office. He didn’t get a chance to finish the recording, but his laptop - because  _ lord forbid _ Gertrude leave him something useful, like a desktop computer - should have saved the recording up to where he left off. To his dismay, however, when he tries to play back the recording, he gets an error message:  **_The file “980113” could not be opened._ **

“Unbelievable,” Jon mutters. Martin managed to waste over an hour of his time over a  _ dog _ . It would probably be best to send him out on a research assignment for the day, lest Jon end up strangling him. Sure, Martin’s unlikely to uncover anything useful, but it will at least get him out of the building and Jon’s hair. 

From the hallway, he hears the familiar sounds of joviality that tend to accompany Tim, and he runs a hand through his hair.  _ Week one, day three,  _ he thinks. 

He hopes the job gets easier from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you like what you read, please comment/subscribe for more! You can also visit me at my blog [here!](https://themoreyoustrex.tumblr.com/)


	3. Act Naturally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Heather Warren, regarding her date with Joshua Gillespie while he was in possession of a noteworthy casket. Original statement given April 23rd, 2008.

I’ve never really approved of people who date their coworkers. I mean, I don’t think it’s  _ wrong _ or anything like that, but I hate the idea of something going wrong and then the next day - oops, look at that, the two of you are on a year-long project together. It’s unprofessional.

All that being said, when Josh invited me over to his place for drinks, I said yes. I didn’t think it was a date, mind - he  _ kind of _ made it seem like he was inviting our coworkers too. Of course, when I found out it was just going to be him and me, I didn’t want to back out and make it weird… you know how it goes. 

Anyway, I’m not going to lie and say I didn’t put on a little extra makeup that afternoon. Professionalism aside, he was pretty cute, and honestly, it had been awhile since a guy had paid attention to me like this. We weren’t going  _ out _ out, but that was all the better, right? ...Sorry, I know you don’t actually want to hear about why I went over. You’re here about the coffin.

So, I get there, and the first thing I notice is that it’s really quiet. Like, it was late afternoon in the middle of spring, and the sun was shining. I was expecting people to be out walking their dogs or enjoying the weather, but I didn’t see anyone in or even near the building. That doesn’t mean no one was there, obviously - Josh was, and I’m sure there were other people inside - but at first glance, the place looked abandoned.

When I went in, Josh’s flat looked… normal, I guess? There was nothing special about it, if that’s what you’re wondering. He just moved to town, so it was pretty sparse: one bedroom, a couch, a dining table. And, obviously, the coffin. 

To be honest, I thought it was just a bad Halloween gag that he had left out for some reason. I mean, “Do Not Open”? Really? And the weirdest part was that he didn’t even mention it until I asked. We must have talked for a good thirty minutes before I was finally comfortable enough to ask him why he had a coffin for an end table, and do you know what he told me? He said, “I’m holding it for a friend.” I tried to ask him what he meant, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it. He didn’t even seem to want to be around it. I got the impression that if I hadn’t already sat down in the sitting room, he would have dragged two chairs into the kitchen and had us sit there. 

But yeah, everything was fine for the first hour or so. We talked, had a few drinks, and tried to avoid talking about work. It was kind of nice, even if he seemed a bit glum. I totally forgot about the coffin until he just about  _ leapt  _ up from the couch, spilling his drink everywhere. I guess- So, he started out on one side of the couch, okay? Like, on the right side, and the coffin was on the left. But over the course of that hour, he slowly moved leftwards, like he was being drawn involuntarily in the direction of the coffin. I mean, I obviously didn’t think it  _ actually  _ had anything to do with the coffin - people move around, and this happened over the course of a whole hour - but when Josh jumped like that, he was looking at it almost… I dunno, accusatorily? Like he thought the coffin was doing something to him. Weird, I know. Or, maybe you don’t think it’s weird, since you’re here asking about it. 

At that point, I had figured out that Josh was genuinely scared of the coffin, so I suggested we go for a walk to give me a chance to sober up before driving home. He looked relieved, and said yes. So, we walked. I guess I just didn’t notice how on edge he was in his own flat, but he looked  _ so relieved _ once we left. He was like a different person - smiling, laughing, and seemingly genuinely having a good time. He told me about how he got the thing - some crazy story about Amsterdam that I barely remember because I was about four in and this was, what, ten years ago now?

The rest of it was uneventful. While we were inside, the sun had set and rain clouds had come in - one of the natural drawbacks to living seaside. It started to rain, and I told him that I’d had a nice time, but I  _ really _ had to go. He didn’t seem to want me to leave, but I wasn’t going to invite him back to my place, and I certainly didn’t want to spend the night with that coffin!

And… that’s it. Josh quit and left town shortly after that, so we didn’t go on any more dates. Or- whatever that was. I don’t know what you were expecting - it’s not like anything jumped out of the coffin to eat me. It was just a coffin. You aren’t drug lords, are you? What, is that where he hid his money?

...Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. 

Oh! One more thing, before I forget: I don’t know if this will help you at all, but when I went to get some ice from his freezer, I saw a bowl of ice. Not, like, chunks of ice in a bowl, but a bowl that he filled with water and left to freeze. When I asked him about it, he got that same look he had when I asked about the coffin.

I hope this helps… whatever you’re doing. It was good to meet you, Mr. Shelley. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. I hope you find your coffin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you like what you read, please comment/subscribe for more! You can also visit me at my blog [here!](https://themoreyoustrex.tumblr.com/)


	4. Eleanor Rigby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Evan never really talked about his family. He said he wasn’t on good terms with them because they were very religious, and he never had been." -Naomi Herne, S1E13

The Lonely did not take kindly to traitors. 

Nathaniel Lukas stroked his beard as he pondered the last twenty eight years of his youngest son’s life, wondering where he went wrong. Evan had always been a good boy: shy, intelligent, and relatively easy to get along with. He was a beautiful child, too, with a mess of curly, dark hair and dull eyes that didn’t shine with the kind of love or excitement most parents hoped to see in their offspring. As a child, he’d had none of his cousins’ sociability or need for attention. He preferred to play alone with the smattering of toys he was allowed to have, and the servants were often hard-pressed to locate him in any of the many winding, secluded corridors of Moorland House. Nathaniel had embraced him and raised him as a child of the Forsaken, convinced that Evan was worthy of the Lukas name.

It turned out that Evan Lukas was also what those outside of the family called a “late bloomer.”

The day that Evan Lukas came to him and told him that he was leaving the family, Nathaniel knew he was lost. The boy had been withdrawing from the family for awhile, which wasn’t unusual and thus didn’t immediately set off any alarm bells in Nathaniel’s mind. Still, in the months leading up to Evan’s self-disownment, there had been a pervasive feeling of  _ wrongness _ in Moorland House whenever Evan returned home from his private apartment in the city. There was an otherness to him; a joy, the dreaded shine to his eyes that indicated a delight in the company of other people. Instead of distancing himself from the family in order to branch off on his own, Evan was distancing himself from the  _ isolation _ of Moorland House. From its god - the god that had already marked him as its own.

He didn’t beg his son to stay - that wasn’t his way. He simply pointed him towards the door, coldly informing him that it would not be open for him should he come to regret his mistake.

He wondered if Evan ever did. If, in his son’s last moments, he knew what was responsible. He hoped that was the case. He hoped Evan’s fear fed his god well. 

Nathaniel’s brother, Elijah Lukas, was much the same way: an aloof, serious child who grew to crave the company of others as an adult, after his initiation. Those were always the worst. When a child lacked the emotional fortitude to weather the reclusive upbringing of a true Lukas… Well, it was easy enough to ship them off to go live with whatever distant relative was willing to take in an extrovert. (Nathaniel’s father had a somewhat different method of dealing with those family members who failed him, as was the case with his older sister, but Nathaniel had always been of the opinion that the Forsaken gained nothing from a punishment as simple as death.) When a family member developed a distaste for solitude later in life, it caused complications. The blasphemy spread through the rest of the family like a disease, tainting entire generations before the family elders could weed it out.

Elijah had fathered five children, and only one was still considered a satisfactory servant of their god. The oldest two, whose names were not to be spoken in the Lukas household until the event of their death, went the same wayward path of their father, but had yet to expire from the agony of being marked by a deity they chose not to serve. The youngest two, whose names Nathaniel had never bothered to learn, were sent away before they reached an age where their sociability could impact the atmosphere of the house.(One of them even had the audacity to be  _ colic.  _ Nathaniel never forgave it for that.) Only the middle child was salvageable. And the child’s mother, of course, who was more Nathaniel’s blood than his brother ever was. 

If one was to take a close look into the Lukas family’s medical history, one would likely come to the conclusion that there was a family history of heart defects. This was untrue. In the Lukas family, there was a history of character defects, and treachery weighed heavily on one’s heart, straining valves and wearing holes through those delicate chambers that pumped one’s life through their veins. This was impossible, of course, but then, most things about the Lukas family were. 

Eventually, Elijah’s heart failed, the loneliness consuming him in one of the secluded corners of the mansion. It was a servant who found him - his wife hadn’t noticed his absence. Elijah had neither been disowned, nor had he disowned himself, so the funeral was large and he was allowed a grave in the family plot. (Though, due to the aforementioned circumstances, only his middle child was present for the service.) Thus, Elijah Lukas faded from existence, taking four of his own children and now one of Nathaniel’s with him.

Natheniel’s reverie, which was rare enough as it was, was abruptly cut short by a knock at the door. He looked up, his dull eyes narrowing at the intrusion. His servants knew better than to announce their presence, and the members of his family who survived the recent exodus surely despised his company as much as he despised theirs.

“Enter,” Nathaniel said, his voice rough from disuse. The door opened, and in stepped the sandy-haired middle son of Elijah Lukas himself. 

“Uncle,” Peter said, by way of greeting. His eyes cast about the sparse study, taking in the dark wooden furniture, the books with faded covers, the tall windows that overlooked the nothingness of the moorland for which the manor was named, before finally landing a bit to the left of Nathaniel’s head. “Heard about Evan. That was quick - thought it would be at least a few more years before it got to him. Bad luck, hm?”

Nathaniel let his sigh, and the accompanying pause, drag out, taking small comfort in the silence that so defined both of their lives. “Luck had nothing to do with it. I assume the voyage is postponed for the funeral.” It was not a question.

“Figured I might as well stay, yeah. Have to look out for my grieving family, after all, right?” A thin smile danced at the corners of his mouth, the only outward sign of amusement at his little joke. “‘Course, there’s also the girl to worry about. She’s going to want to come, you know. Could get messy if we try to keep her out.” In response to Nathaniel’s arched eyebrow, Peter’s smile widened into a grin. “I had our old friend keep an  _ eye _ out for me, as it were. Thought maybe the girl would bring him back, but…” To anyone else, Peter’s sigh would probably have sounded genuinely regretful. “No dice, I’m afraid. Shame. Ah, well. That’s the way it goes.”

Peter’s buoyancy, despite being so ingenuine it was reminiscent of I Do Not Know You, still grated on Nathaniel’s ears. His words stank too much of humanity, especially paired with the unwelcome reminder of Peter’s  _ connection _ with Jonah Magnus. While Nathaniel understood the practical nature of their arrangement, he disliked the idea of Peter developing a relationship with a man who could not be enveloped into the family dynamic. Anyone who could not be controlled was inherently a danger to everything Nathaniel stood for, and to be reminded of this in the middle of dealing with the loss of his son was almost too much to bear. 

Out of habit, Nathaniel began to distance himself from the room (and its occupants) in an attempt to escape, to separate himself from this reminder of his past mistakes. “I will prepare the invitations,” he said, his voice echoing in the semi-emptiness. 

“And I’ll stick around to clean up the inevitable mess, yeah? That’s how it goes.” Nathaniel could hear the sharpness of Peter’s grin through his voice, but, blessedly, he seemed to recognize Nathaniel’s lack of response as a dismissal. “See you then, boss. Or maybe not.” 

Through the icy fog that now permeated the room, Nathaniel was unable to see Peter leave, but he heard the door close with a definitive  _ thump _ , and he took comfort in the fact that, once, again, he was completely alone. 

Nathaniel began to drift away in a sea of isolation, letting the fog overtake his mind. Just a few more days until the funeral. After that, Nathaniel would be able to rest knowing that the last of the family’s plague had been extinguished. A few more days, and Evan Lukas would rejoin his ancestors in the Moorland House cemetery. Near them, but alone. Utterly under the control of Nathaniel and his god. The way it should be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you like what you read, please comment/subscribe for more! You can also visit me at my blog [here!](https://themoreyoustrex.tumblr.com/)


End file.
